My Medea
by Silberias
Summary: Sherlock was content to wall her away from others and keep her for himself this way. "Jim from IT," changed everything for Sherlock which in turn changed everything for Molly. She was his and would be until the end. Canon-ish during S1, partial-divergent during S2.
1. Case 1

****This has already been posted on Tumblr (not onionna), but I'd like to get some feedback here just the same. This story is complete, and inspired by the song "My Medea" by Vienna Teng. I don't particularly care for very many of the "Sherlock finds his heart and falls in love for forever with so and so!" fics because I think he is a bit too distant with people for that to ever happen. I think that if it did happen it would happen completely on his own terms and at his own pace.

This story will be organized by "Cases" which are stand-ins for the extended chapter titles, taken directly from the lyrics of "My Medea." Another thing, just because I have "finished" this story doesn't mean I'm not open to changing things a bit if you point something out, so please do if you wish. The cases will range in length greatly, too, so don't get comfortable in thinking you've got this story mapped out (unless you read it on tumblr and then shame on you for reading it twice and not saying a thing about it! No, not really, I love you to pieces for reading it twice :) ). Also, this is Sherlolly. Because that is my Sherlock OTP.

Well, without further ado,

Enjoy!

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**Inside the labyrinth walls there lies a tiny child who sleeps alone. **

Sherlock liked this hospital. You would never get him to admit it, he claimed he had no room for something as useless as _liking_ something, but he did. He liked the location—close to the flat he'd been living in for the last five years, doing Mycroft's bidding occasionally to assure his rent was paid—and he liked the look of it. He liked the people, and the way the hallways were shaped. It was a modern hospital, fully modern, and he liked it.

He especially liked that their chief pathologist was a timid young woman by the name of Molly Hooper, and that her personal lab was only a floor up from the mortuary. He liked that she was single when he met her and he liked that she let him assassinate the characters of the men she tried to attach herself to. He liked that she let him, even though she was strong enough to see just what he was doing. Sherlock did not kid himself that his vapid, half-pleasant observations would have gotten anywhere with any other woman. Molly Hooper was a rarity for him, and rarities always pleased Sherlock Holmes. He liked them too.

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	2. Case 2

****I have a recommendation...put on "My Medea," when you read these chapters. Because of reasons.

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**And as the daylight falls, the wind becomes so wild across the stone. **

Molly Hooper worked the evening and night shifts, rarely venturing into the daylight hours. This meant she overlapped between the bodies of those who died in broad daylight and the darkness of nighttime. Sherlock had, before he'd ever met her, planned on coming in during these shifts particularly. He was just very lucky that the exact person he needed worked those same hours as well. Sherlock needed intelligent, fast-working, clinical, and sentimental. He needed someone who would look at the bodies with a sympathetic eye, because that was an angle he could not see but still _needed_. Molly Hooper was exactly what he required, and she was always so nice to him as he invaded her lab and her mortuary.

Most other people said "Piss off," when he asked for their assistance. But never once had Molly ever claimed she was unable to help him. It was because she liked him too—but in a different way than he liked her. Molly Hooper had a _crush_.

Her crush on him was grating, but it meant she would never request a change in scheduling based on his visits—the minor inconvenience of her stammers gave him far greater reward in the long run than if she fled from him as some of the other pathologists did. And because she was the _chief_ pathologist, it meant he had the run of the place. If Sherlock were very much into kissing when he met her, he could have kissed her for the fact that she was smart enough and good enough to be right where he needed her to be.

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	3. Case 3

****So yeah.

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**For I have made her prison be her every step away from me. **

Sherlock, of course, had read up on manipulation and the psychology behind it years ago after his diagnosis of _high functioning sociopath_. He needed to understand how to mess with people's heads, how to get them to do what he wanted. Not for malicious reasons, really, he did it much more to try and fit into the society around him—society was all manipulation, just much more cleverly concealed by defter hands than his.

He practiced constantly on Molly. He rewarded her for things she did to get his attention before twisting his words around, sharpening into hooks and barbs. He never stabbed her fragile ego, he hurt it while reeling her in at the same time. Sherlock would watch in fascination as muscles in her face would twitch and respond to what he was doing to her emotions—she had a very readable face which meant that he was able to conduct a wide variety of social-cue experiments on her. Other people quickly got mad at him, muddling the rest of their responses. But never Molly. Sherlock made his visits to her interesting and exciting as a kind of reward to her and in return Molly kept the place in her heart warm for him.

Coming from a cool and distant family himself, Sherlock couldn't quite understand her flickering _nice_ness. It was like sitting in an icy cold room with a single candle flame for warmth, he realized one day—she could be stern and professional around others, but her warmth was increasingly becoming reserved only for Sherlock. He chose to luxuriate in it, warmth having been something he was wholly unfamiliar with. Because he didn't completely push her away, he knew she would never leave him.

He trusted both this fact and the woman herself implicitly.

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	4. Case 4

**And this child I would destroy if you tried to set her free**

When Jim Moriarty had pretended to be gay, Sherlock hadn't seen _Moriarty. _What Sherlock had seen was the entire act through "Jim from IT"'s eyes. The nice gay man would go on some nice dates with the dippy pathologist, lure her away from that freak detective and set her up with a man who was good for her. After a few dates he would end it sweetly, saying it wasn't working but could they be friends and does she want to meet a friend of his?

Sherlock approved not one whit of "Jim from IT"'s plan, though had he known of _Moriarty's_ plan he wouldn't have approved of that one either.

Molly's eyes had been shining with hope. Her smile to Jim was just as real as the ones she gave Sherlock when he complimented her and didn't take it back—which he did from time to time, to wind the bindings a little tighter around her heart which was _his_ since he didn't have one of his own. Sherlock had felt his temper boil over—he had never learned to share properly because Mycroft was seven years his senior and therefore Sherlock Holmes had never had to vie for the same toys.

He had to end this vacuous little 'office romance' that Molly was insisting on having. Except he didn't destroy the man who was making Molly Hooper smile, because "Jim from IT" was completely comfortable with his sexuality. A character assassination would do nothing other then make "Jim from IT" smile as Sherlock picked out every clue correctly. He wouldn't mind or take offence to being called out as gay, he would just have to change his plans with the pretty pathologist.

So Sherlock Holmes took one look at Molly's Jim, making sure that Molly saw him truly assessing the man, and said "Gay." Molly had been listening to his mumbles and whispers and shouts for the last five years, and had deciphered nearly all of his half-formed words. From how the smile froze on her face, he knew he'd won. Molly heard him, even though he "covered" for himself with _Hey_. He'd been wrong, so completely wrong, about "Jim from IT," but that didn't matter. Sherlock had proved to his criminal counterpart that just because Molly was not _his_ it did not mean she was _free_. But "Jim from IT" had served a useful purpose, that of showing Sherlock that there were those he cared about but never spoke to.

That and that he relied far too much on Molly Hooper to lose her over something as dreary as falling in love with a man who bought her flowers. Sherlock wondered if he ought to change that little fact about Molly Hooper as well. Perhaps if _he _bought her flowers, this little stunt would not be repeated. Later on came the conclusive evidence—for all their safety, Molly's dating habits were to be closely monitored. In person.

Sherlock carefully planned the first time he saw her after Moriarty had tried to kill him and John. He didn't bring her a coffee—she would immediately see his motive—but he did bring her a curry. As she ate, Sherlock carefully told her about what had happened that night at the pool. He swallowed his pride and admitted aloud what had happened over the last two weeks or so. He admitted that Jim Moriarty had tricked him, and had used Molly to get so near to him and that he was _sorry_ that he had allowed her to be in such great danger.

Awkward did not cover the look she gave him. It was like he'd given her a kitten on her birthday and it made him uncomfortable—he refused to let himself speculate on how she would react in a few weeks' time when he declared 'romantic' intentions towards her. It would be awful if this is what "I apologize," did to her.

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	5. Case 5

Thank you ale lore and Endless Blue for reviewing so far! It is wonderful to get some feedback about this piece. So thank you, thank you bunches :)

Enjoy!

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**So come to me my love**

John asked him. Of course he would. He asked what Sherlock felt for Molly. _If_ he felt for Molly. John was becoming less blind day by day, he was proud of him. Sherlock had smiled a little as he rosined his bow—he would play Tchaikovsky tonight before he went to Molly's. He was feeling in the mood for Russian work this week. Tchaikovsky certainly felt appropriate to his mood. Alluring, manic, delicate, dark, and so terribly complex. Yes. It would do nicely. He made a note to answer John after he played a little, testing it out. The first notes were soft, lofty.

The matter with Jim Moriarty had shown him that he could be wholly outpaced under his own nose. He drew his bow across the strings faster, a brisk, agitated pace. That madman was different enough from Sherlock to offer Molly something new, but quite the same enough to keep her permanently should the fancy have struck him. That could not happen, he thought as he drew nearly black notes out of his violin before switching to a more merry lilt. It was almost happy. Molly was Sherlock's personal experiment, and he was putting an end to further possible cross contamination.

He stopped and finally looked at John with one of his barely there smiles. He took the violin away from his neck briefly as he spoke.

"I've worked with her for five years, I ought to care for her. But in answer to your real question, John, yes, I do plan on moving forward in a romantic relationship with Molly. I am going to pay her a visit tonight to speak with her about a date next week."

"If she agrees after the great git you've been after all this time, you mean?" Sherlock went back to ignoring his flatmate, his violin settled firmly against his neck once again, focusing on the fluttering high melody of the piece. When it was played with an orchestra behind it, this line sounded like a bird winging innocently towards the cat's claws. Sherlock smiled a fraction as the melody chirped along innocently—yes, the Tchaikovsky was definitely a good choice for the evening.

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	6. Case 6

So I want to clarify before I get to it in a few chapters: This story is rated M, and I _think_ it is in compliance with the site's posted guidelines on the matter. Just felt like I ought to throw that out there. The chapter in question is going to be Case 8, so in a little bit. Thank you for your reviews so far, it is nice to hear what people think of this! Special thanks to rory'sfan04 who reviewed last chapter!

Enjoy!

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**I'll tap into your strength and drain it dry**

The one holdout he had allowed Molly during their long acquaintance was her home. He deduced nothing of her home-life. **_Ever_.** This was completely intentional, because Molly needed a place to be whoever she had been before she'd ever met him. She needed a place to recharge and feel safe after the emotional roller-coasters he took her on at St. Bart's. But this did _not_ mean that he didn't _know_ all about her home-life.

He knew about the cat she told her friends was named Toby but who she called _Sherlock_ when no one was there but her. Which was often, he smiled to himself, remembering the last man she'd mentioned—Sherlock had found him and just _almost_ brought him to tears after a careful analysis of his failing career. The deduction of the cat's name was childishly easy. There was a marked hesitation in her if John asked after the animal, and twice he had caught her eyes twitch towards him—not a glance, just _almost_ a glance, when she spoke of the creature. Sherlock didn't particularly care what she called her cat, though. He could see Molly's wallpaper choices in the spring floral prints she wore during summer, and he could see her love for imported merlot in her wine-colored lipsticks—chosen unconsciously to hide the minute red to purple stains the wine left on her lips.

It was an hour's walk to her flat. He could have hailed a cab and been there in fifteen minutes, but the walk ensured that he didn't feel rushed or pushed when he arrived at her building. He was in control of the situation, and that helped immensely. Sherlock took the long walk to acclimate himself to the life he was about to dive headlong into—it was thrilling to put everything on the line for a given result, and this was no different.

He knew that she would come with a cat, and that the wine he drank wouldn't nearly be up to the snuff she was used to—he would let her keep all of this, it cost him nothing. Besides, some things would throw another few loops around her to keep her close—her having better taste in wine than him would be _endearing_ and _empowering_ to her. He would have to bear it graciously when she had her laugh at him, he would have to smile—embarrassed and shy. He would have to drink that bitter gourmet wine rather than the sugary sweet cheap swill he preferred, but it would be worth it in the end. Love and relationships were not incomprehensible to Sherlock Holmes. In fact, he was of the opinion that there were few so well versed in them as himself. He knew exactly how to act and behave to begin a relationship with Molly Hooper, and he also knew exactly how to make her fall in love with him. It was all down to manipulation and chemicals, and was then extraordinarily simple.

Sherlock knew she lived on the seventh floor and it was therefore ludicrous and out of character to stand on the street to play his violin. So he broke into the building and took the lift up to the seventh floor. He tuned his violin in the privacy of the lift, and soon stationed himself in her doorway, leaning on the jamb. He blithely ignored her neighbors poking their heads out of their flats to gape or scowl at him and his noise. He played Scheherazade, the beginning almost too soft and high to hear. He liked this piece; he played it a great deal. The high notes tightened every muscle in his body, so that he was hyperaware of every place his skin touched something and of every place he skin touched only air. It made his eyes dilate in pleasure, a useful side effect for his mission.

"Sherlock…what are you doing here? It's past ten," Molly said softly as she opened her door, glancing nervously at her neighbors who were still staring at him. Her housecoat was mint green—he had thought it to be light blue, from a careful analysis of her wardrobe at work. Well, he mused, he always missed something. Molly's shoulders were curled in a little, her arms hugging her front to keep warm and to hide. Sherlock finished the measure and brought the violin and the bow to his sides. He had rehearsed their entire interaction in his head for most of the afternoon, so the words easily came out of him now—to open the trap he had made.

"Molly, don't you think I've kept you waiting long enough?"

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	7. Case 7

**I'll never have enough **

She had accepted his apology wholeheartedly. Her posture changed, standing up a little straighter, as one of her hands hesitantly raised to touch his cheek, the other going farther up to curl into his hair. He could tell that she knew it was all she was going to get, but it thrilled her to get it at all. It had been a long time since he'd last been pulled down for a kiss, but he had mentally prepared himself for such an eventuality.

Mostly Sherlock felt relief course through his body as Molly kissed him. His hard work of the last several years remained intact and Sherlock literally breathed a sigh of relief at this. The sigh was timed perfectly, just as the kiss with Molly ended. Sherlock sighed and relaxed, resting his forehead against hers. The wonderful thing about this bit was that it was so simple and subtle, having everything to do with whose hands went where.

His own hands were still occupied with his violin, his bow, and so it was Molly who held him to her not the other way 'round. Molly whose fingers were in his hair—he would have to make sure this became a habit, filing away the sensation to be properly examined later. Their stance was also designed to make her feel in control, that he had come expressly for her in the hopes that she would take him. It was…close to the truth. He had indeed come expressly for her, but actually with the full knowledge that she would take him. He knew her far too well.

Sherlock decided, kissing her forehead softly before trailing his lips down her cheek to once again meet her mouth, that she would be at Baker Street in three months or less. If he was going to give up everything to this _relationship_ he was manufacturing, Molly would have to do the same. After all this was for her safety, as well as Sherlock's own mental wellbeing, that he was going through with this plan.

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	8. Case 8

Thanks to** Zora Arian, Manoella Nascimento, **and** illel **for the reviews on Cases 4 and 6! Case 8 here is where the story will begin to do the divergence from S2, as well as earn the M. Not really heavily AU or M, but, I think I have maintained quite a few of the major events of S2, but with a strong Sherlolly AU to it. Remember to occasionally listen to "My Medea" by Vienna Teng if you want to know certain moods to the story. **  
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Also, the Silberias (Silberia's Secrets) tumblr also has this story posted, although the chapters here have undergone a bit of editing and sometimes contain entire paragraphs of new material so for the most up-to-date versions of the cases, I would read the story here as well as there. But if you want to just "skip to the end" the whole story is more or less over on tumblr. Thank you for the reviews, everyone!

Enjoy!

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**For you I'd burn the length and breadth of sky**

Sherlock had originally planned on not helping his brother with his Adler problem. That was until Mycroft alluded to Adler potentially going after Molly—pursuing a relationship drew attention, created targets, after all, and Adler desperately wanted something from Mycroft. She would likely try to do something to damage Sherlock's relationship with Molly—who was so fragile and sensitive still, constantly thinking Sherlock would leave her over the smallest thing— which sent white hot fury down Sherlock's spine only for it to return immediately back up with icy, serene logic. Mycroft had something he didn't want to give up. Sherlock had something he refused to lose. It was easily settled.

His brother had said that Adler was a dominatrix, she knew how to bully a man who wanted her to. It was why the elder Holmes brother was sending Sherlock on this case—because Sherlock did _not _allow himself to be bullied. Why send minions when the fast bowler will finish the job twice as quick with better results?

Adler let herself be lured in by Sherlock who was feigning interest in her gaudy display. He understood her every motive by appearing before him nude, and he knew that whatever his brother needed it was to be found within this room. He found the concealed cabinet within a minute, and the gun hidden there as well which he used to shoot the five attackers with—Americans, CIA from their rough demeanor, who were after something that Sherlock couldn't care about. Adler was about to escape out of the window when he shot her ankle—even if she jumped, she wouldn't go far.

"You, woman, _repel_ me," Sherlock said as he flipped his phone out to text his brother the address as well as what kind of clean-up crew would be required. He glanced up at Adler, fingers moving with surety over the phone. "Did you think you would lead me on a merry chase? Or that the naked live human body holds secrets which I have not yet pondered let alone grasped? I would leave you here, to deal with whoever your master is—Moriarty in all likelihood—but," Mycroft texted back that his people were on their way, "I know that my brother has extensive plans for you, Irene Adler. They end with what I believe my Molly would refer to as a 'high speed lead injection,' or perhaps 'a weighted burlap swimming costume,' or some other atrocious euphemism. She has the most terrible sense of humor, don't you agree?" The woman didn't acknowledge him was curled on the ground, still quite naked, clutching her ruined ankle and weeping as he spoke and Sherlock felt not a whit of sympathy for her. Besides, he could clearly see that she wept crocodile tears rather than real ones. However the tears were why he hadn't brought John along, because John would have stopped him several times over by now—_more than a bit not good_, _Mate._ As if.

Mycroft needed what was on the woman's camera phone, apparently. The mobile was quickly handed over to Sherlock to break into—which was disturbingly easy, once he caught sight of the locking screen. Molly had the same password on the computer Mycroft had given her when she moved in with Sherlock—she thought it was witty since he was always breaking into it, the code being turned into a statement that she didn't mind that he absconded with her belongings. _Of course_ she wouldn't mind—he wouldn't tolerate someone who could put up more than twenty minutes of resistance to him. If he hadn't already had Molly's unconscious hint, the result would have been the same.

_I AM . . . . LOCKED_

Her typical clientele was women, though occasionally men came to her begging—her desperation to impress him, confuse him, put him off the trail by giving him another one, revealed her infatuation. And infatuations led to silly manifestations of sentimentality—Molly's cat was prime in his mind, but there were others in his life who did similar things. Adler was no different. She was not special, and hadn't even gone to any special effort in her attempt to _appear_ special. Boring.

After he solved Mycroft's little problem in less than a day, Sherlock went back to Baker Street and rewarded himself by making love to Molly while John was out. She didn't like having sex in the middle of the day, but he sweet talked her into it by telling her how he'd solved the case with her help—that she had, in her way, helped preserve the safety of the Commonwealth for another day or so. Sherlock normally wouldn't have pushed so hard, but this was how he planned to exact revenge on that woman for thinking she could have him for even one second. When he delivered the woman and the phone to his brother he'd smirked and pointed to his ear while he glanced at the woman. Mycroft had the entire building of 221 Baker Street bugged within an inch of its life, with cameras in the main living areas of 221_B_ as well.

His elder brother made no secret of his surveillance of Sherlock's life. Mostly it annoyed him, but today it was a treat, something quite special.

Molly's gasps and cries—as well as his own more restrained ones—were sure to read clear as crystal through every single mic in the bedroom. From Mycroft's nod earlier in the day, Sherlock was fairly sure that those perfectly captured noises were reaching the woman's ears almost as well as they reached his own. He laved attention on Molly until he drew words of love mixed in with his name from her lips, in fact he did so several times that afternoon. When he finally let them both rest, cooling bodies curled tightly together, Sherlock smirked—he allowed himself to hope that his brother had left the woman alone with the speakers blaring. No one bullied a Holmes. No one.

The woman somehow managed to get away from his brother's people, but was found 'dead' within weeks after escaping from Mycroft. He saw through her scheme easily—and so he did his brother a favor several weeks later when she tried to climb through his and Molly's bedroom window. He pushed her out, simple as that. There was no faking that death, and there were no criminal charges for Sherlock who had acted in self-defense it was found when a knife and poison were 'found' on the body. Mycroft had had a surprisingly easy time of smoothing over what to do with the woman's body. Meanwhile Sherlock was glad to be rid of her forever.

He was also glad that he had (barely) managed to keep her from Molly. The poison and weapon hinted that she had actually wanted to harm Molly or himself, but the woman also claimed once upon a time to be a master of manipulation—he wasn't sure how easily all of his hard work with St. Bart's chief pathologist could be undone, but Sherlock had little interest in _ever_ finding out.

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	9. Case 9

Thank you, **Nocturnias**, for the kind review on Case 8! After I pretty much read all of the Sherlolly fics posted, I came away with this intense desire to write something dark. That, coupled with My Medea which I've wanted to write a story to for years and years and years, led to this. So yeah...Thank you!

Without further ado,

Enjoy!

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**For it's my thoughts that bind me here**

He had his first argument with Molly, ever, when he and John were persuaded to go to Baskerville to investigate a case. She sniffed softly through their conversation, a few tears leaking down her face sometimes—she did not want him to leave, and was refusing to take 'no' for an answer. She was being infuriatingly emotional, far worse than she usually was actually. It very briefly occurred to him—and he vowed for it never to do so again—that they would both be better off not seeing one another. That they weren't good for each other. After that horrifying thought, he ceased all outward indication of his agitation—choosing instead to sit on his chair and bring Molly with him to curl up in his arms.

Her hair was soft, full and beautiful. It was positively shining today. Sherlock knew, as he kissed Molly's eyelids, that he couldn't, that he _wouldn't_ ever leave her alone now. He had to have her. Even though her constant proximity was turning his temper to something _more_ than volatile, Molly was also becoming a permanent anchor. The mere thought of her reactions to his doings could chide him, and John had to remind him less and less of what was _good_ and what was _not good_. He also admitted to himself, fingers buried in Molly's auburn hair, that it would be prudent to have her start accompanying him and John on their cases. There was a very real probability he would begin missing things in his distraction over her absence, or even worry for her safety when he was not there to ensure it.

Looking at her face, tucked against his chest in a doze, Sherlock knew full well that he had made her this way, so dependent on him, so trusting of him—so _defensive_ of his side of things. Not only that, but he had taken a target which was already in neon colors and added "come kill me to hurt Sherlock!" in sparkling lights to it. He knew he would feel so much less guilty if she was hurt while she was with him than away—he had the illusion of control if she was with him. When she blinked awake an hour later, Sherlock was ready for it and for what needed to be said.

"Molly, I may require your assistance out in Baskerville—you will come with John and I, Mycroft will see to arranging your time away from St. Bart's," he paused to gauge her reaction out of the corner of his eye, "If our being separated is actually the root of your unhappiness." He stopped again, meeting her eyes as she looked up from his shoulder. "It is certainly the cause of my displeasure, if you must know."

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	10. Case 10

All of that research long ago from another story paid off for this case and the last one. :) Also, many thanks to **living-in-my-own-AU** for the review! I'm glad you like this Sherlock, and I hope you like the rest of this story :D It's about half-way through at this point.

Enjoy!

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**It's this love that I most fear**

"Sherlock, we need to talk—please." They were leaving today—John had caught a ride back to London with Lestrade after they'd solved their problem at Baskerville, and soon enough he and Molly would be checked out and on their way home as well. The case had interrupted John's packing, he claimed. He was moving out to live with a woman named Mary, someone Sherlock hated fiercely because she was taking John Watson away from him. Sherlock was just out of the shower and in just his pants, his trousers not quite part of his day yet, toweling his hair as Molly packed the single trunk they'd brought with them. She was nearly finished with the packing, leaving out a few shirts for him to choose from, sitting next to the selections on the bed and waiting for him. Sherlock walked over to Molly, reading instantly from the placement of her hands and the stress lines on her face that she was in need of a large show of physical affection from him.

Her tense shoulders showed that it was most definitely not sex, but something more reassuring—so Sherlock nudged her knees apart and stood between them. He took the warm, damp towel from his head and circled Molly's shoulders with it, pulling her forward in the same motion to rest against his abdomen. Sherlock calculated every touch to encourage her to speak her mind and to relax, getting what he wanted almost instantly—sometimes he wondered if he could play Molly better than he could play violin.

"Sherlock, I'm…I'm afraid," she said softly, almost too softly to be heard which had him dropping to his knees in front of her. He needed to look into her eyes, to see the striations flexing in her irises to understand why she was nearly inaudible with fright. He tried to keep his mind from racing—who had hurt her, what had they done? He also kept his lips sealed, he would not frighten Molly further with deducing anything—he always missed something, he reminded himself, and he did not want to miss something here. Sherlock stroked his hand along her cheek, thumb just catching on her nose, index and middle trailing directly down her cheekbone, ring and pinky curling inward to catch her jawline right as his thumb slipped from her nose to her lips. _Tell me_.

"Sherlock, I think that I'm pregnant—I know we never talked, never planned, and it's okay I can lea—"

He'd taken in what she'd said, completely and utterly still in shock up until she tried to tell him that it was "okay." Sherlock knew that his eyes were hard as malachite as he spoke, but he couldn't help it.

"You will not leave me, Molly Hooper," his voice was fierce as his hand turned from cupping her cheek to gripping her chin to make sure her eyes stayed on him. "If you feel the need to talk and plan, I believe we will still have several months to do that. But. _you_. will. _not_. leave me." He waited until Molly nodded before putting both hands at her hips, his thumbs at her abdomen, slanted a little downward to where his knowledge of human anatomy told him his semen and her egg had found one another, become one, and found a home for the next several months. He smirked as the thought came to him, a microparallel to himself and Molly—such a tiny creature had taken complete control of such a large cell, bending it to its will completely. Molly had been so independent, educated and strong, and all it took from Sherlock was mere _words_ to control her within months of their introduction.

His thumbs swept a few arcs across her lower abdomen before he raised both hands to bring Molly's lips down to his own. He always missed _something_. He had missed the same thing Molly had missed—her menses had been on the same regular cycle for the last six years, but it was only because she _had _to expect them that she noticed. Sloppy, sloppy. They slept in the same bed, even, so it should have been acutely, painfully easy to figure out.

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	11. Case 11

Thank you, **Araminta18** for the review!

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**And this child I would destroy for I hold her pain most dear**

Mycroft was thoroughly unimpressed with the idea that Sherlock was to be a father before the year was out. Rather than immediately hash out the fight, Sherlock simply made sure that his elder brother was never in the position of being able to kidnap his pathologist—Sherlock spent record amounts of time wreaking havoc at St. Bart's because he had to make sure that nothing bad came to happen to her. Mycroft outsmarted him by calling Molly herself and very sweetly asking if they might all have a family dinner together somewhere—even dining in at Baker Street would suffice.

Sherlock's greatest security threat where Molly was concerned was that she was _sweet_ and nice, and that she had a big heart. He had looked up from the experiment he had been thoroughly engrossed in to see her putting her mobile back into her pocket while she walked to the kitchen. Passing by him she trailed her hand across his shoulders before going to the pantry and beginning to sort a bit of food out of it.

"Sherlock, what do you want for dinner?"

"Coffee, two sugars. On a case."

"Your brother is coming over for dinner, Sherlock, please—" _please eat, please sit with me while your scary older brother invades our flat, please be nice to him for me, please don't be a wanker._ Sherlock heard every possible end to that sentence the instant it started, so he quickly amended his previous request before beginning to process the results of his experiment.

"Fusilli with alfredo and chicken then. Broccoli for yourself, as well, you need the calcium, and the boron—your skeleton is going to go all wonky, needs all the help it can get. And," he paused, looked up from his writing at her with a smile to make sure she didn't argue with him too much over it, "_Thank you_ Molly—did Mycroft say when he would arrive?" The smile she sent him was relieved and she left Sherlock alone after that until supper was ready. Mycroft arrived three minutes early, as was his habit, and wisely kept his mouth shut for the most part, other than making pleasant conversation. Sherlock, who was impervious to them by now, was glad that Molly's nervous giggles were setting his brother's teeth on edge. Her giggles had once bothered Sherlock too, but one can get used to anything if subjected to it for long enough. He was half-way impressed that his brother managed to hold off on his true intentions until they were nearly done with their meal.

"Sherlock, surely you must know that you are completely incapable of raising a child. The life you lead is antithesis to the responsibilities of leading a family," Mycroft said after he finished frowning at his plate—he loathed alfredo, and cared for beef over chicken. He was also allergic to broccoli. If Sherlock had been feeling generous he might have told Molly these things, or simply asked for a different meal—but Mycroft's aim tonight was to make Sherlock and Molly uncomfortable, it was only fair that he return the favor.

Molly went completely still at Mycroft's words while Sherlock finished his bite and swallowed. He ate more now than ever before because Molly had asked him to share at least one meal a day with her, no matter what time it was—it was a sign of respect, to cave to a partner's wishes, and so Sherlock had humbled himself to the notion. He'd hated having to stop and _eat_ on her orders for several weeks before giving up. She could at least cook better than John had and she let him _choose_ what to eat unlike Mrs. Hudson.

Silence reined the table for another few moments before Sherlock spoke. However, before he answered his brother, he shot a look towards Molly—her eyes were fixed on him, which was convenient—and smiled in reassurance. He hoped it would ease the pain his response would undoubtedly cause her.

"Mycroft, I have never yet met a challenge or skill I could not overcome or learn. I have full confidence that I will be able to pick up let's say the _knack_ of parenting. Secondly, if I doubted myself or thought myself incapable of raising a child, I would have taken Molly to the clinic myself to erase such a mistake from the biologic record. You would have known about your potential niece or nephew long after their weeks-old demise if you had ever found out at all. Thirdly, if I truly believed myself incapable of raising a child I would have insisted on a stringent birth-control policy for both myself and Molly. Now," he said, standing from the table, "I believe you have made me emotionally injure the mother of my child quite enough tonight, and I'll ask that you show yourself out."

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Review?


	12. Case 12

Thank you for the kind reviews so far, everyone, and the various adds to story alerts. Those are shiny too :) Thank you, **living-in-my-own-AU** for the review on Case 11, too!**  
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**No haven for this heart**

Molly didn't speak to him for days. Sherlock had known this would be her reaction—it would have been worse if he hadn't made eye contact with her—and he waited it out. He played the entire Scheherazade concerto several times each day, allowing the music to pull his face into the properly trite expression he wanted Molly to see. On the fourth day, it worked.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry—it was just such a shock to hear those things from you—you never—never—" he loathed it when she cried. She hiccupped and her terrible conversational skills went out the window leaving her with none. But as he allowed her to hold him, kiss him, Sherlock tolerated her tears. He had managed to look heartbroken enough—even though he didn't have one of his own, he'd had to steal Molly's—for long enough that he'd gotten her to apologize for his slights to her. The truth was he didn't know what there was to apologize to her other than in the way he'd kicked his brother out of their flat. Everything he had said was true, what need was there for an apology for the _truth?_

He was glad, however, that Molly so easily forgave him. Sherlock knew that she cast a wide, bright light in his life—wider and brighter than any he'd ever been left to stand in. John's goodness was like a Maglite torch, bright and focused. John could zero in on just what Sherlock was doing wrong and tell him exactly what he'd done—but on wider issues, John's hard, moral light could sometimes fade and not be as strong. Molly was different, Molly's goodness was like a floodlight. Sherlock couldn't hide from it, but he was getting to the point where he didn't _want _to hide from it anymore. Sherlock feared that if Molly left him now, he might not survive.

Not that he would be heartbroken, but that left alone in the darkness he would turn once again to the drugs, the days without sleep or food or water, and the rough companions he'd kept in his late twenties. Or, even worse, he would go and work for Mycroft full-time. It was an awful comparison to call Sherlock Holmes a machine, or an automaton when Sherlock had _seen_ the information gatherers, the detectives, who worked for his brother. Compared to them, Sherlock was downright _bipolar_ in his emotions and feelings.

Those dark places were the only other places he would be able to go if Molly left him. So as he and Molly sat down in his chair, still kissing and touching, Sherlock was desperate to make sure that she knew he was grateful to her.

"I love you, Molly Hooper," he said, lips hovering just over hers—his face just far enough away so his eyes could focus properly to meet her gaze. Truth be told, he wasn't sure that he did—but they were at a stage where such a sentiment might be expected, and he did _feel_ things in relation to her and why not just call them 'love,' and get the bonus of her increased devotion to him? He had already killed once for her, and that was the kind of psychotic-break love that was popular in books and novels—and Molly loved her terrible television shows so _dearly_ and thought them to be _so romantic_.

"Will you play me the—the one you usually play?"

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Review?


	13. Case 13

**No shelter for this child in mazes lost**

It fell entirely on him to protect Molly, Sherlock realized on day one hundred and forty as he took a picture of Molly and her just-barely-showing baby bump. It was a project which appealed to both of them. Him because he was able to track her pregnancy in exactitude from home, and to her because she would be able to make a photo album as a keepsake.

His brother would do his best to shield them, of course, but he had at _least_ seventeen countries to run at the moment if the polish on his shoes was anything to go by. John had moved out two months ago, and Mrs. Hudson could barely protect her own fridge(s) from Sherlock's experiments let alone Molly and a baby.

Sherlock did not mind the expectation of rising to the challenge. He had created this web to keep Molly near, it was his responsibility to make sure she—and his unborn child—remained quite safely cocooned there. His only consolation was that Mycroft had sent him a picture, captured from a camera phone, of his newest addition to his office. It was a morbid habit carried over from childhood, turned towards more mature themes. It had started with frogs, if Sherlock recalled correctly.

In a jar of blue preservative liquid, floated a severed head bearing the surprised face of James Moriarty—Jim from IT, who had started this entire mess. Sherlock smirked and saved the photo as his phone's wallpaper, pleased that the snake's head had been cut off. However, there was the potential that it was less a snake and more a hydra, so Sherlock did not count himself safe, he counted the danger the same as he had the day before. This was his brother's way of apologizing and for the first time in his life, Sherlock accepted it.

_You have always been far more unpredictable than I and far more prepared, Brother_

_SH_

He didn't pause to think that Molly might handle his phone and see the background, because he really didn't care. Molly ought to know by now that the Holmes brothers did not deal with threats in a normal fashion, and really Moriarty had tried to kill Sherlock and John—and he had hurt Molly, he had managed to hurt her far worse than Sherlock had ever managed in more than five years. He deserved to have his head in a jar in a small office deep within the halls of power. Mycroft had even put the jar on a display pedestal with a brass label at the base. It read: **J. Moriarty. He tried.**

_Of course._

Those were the first truly respectful and civil words the brothers had exchanged in more than a decade. The memories felt weird where Sherlock hung them up in his Mind Palace, but he enjoyed weird things so he left them.

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Review?


	14. Case 14

Thanks **Araminta18** for the review on Case 13! I'm glad you're liking it, hope to hear from all of you soon about this one!

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**Heaven keep us apart**

Sherlock did not believe in God. He believed that at one point or another in a person's life, they died and were put in a special room and set fire to. After that, those remaining around them cried for them to be brought back and did terrible things in the hopes of just such an occurrence until realizing the futility of such actions—and then they too waited to die. He believed that until one died—be that by horrific accident, the failure of a bodily system, or intentionally inflicted, grievous wounds to the body—one should wake up every morning and try not to be bored.

And, in the very few times that Sherlock Holmes was desperate, he did _not_ cry out for God to save him. There was little point to such an irrational endeavor.

Today was one such instance. He was desperately trying to curb the urge to verbally accost Molly for _her_ cries out to what amounted to an invisible friend as she moaned and sweated and shrieked. But she was giving birth to his daughter, and he decided he could allow her a few misguided ramblings to an Iron Age folktale. In fact, he was finding, he could allow Molly Holmes quite a lot. She had asked to get married eight days ago, and yesterday they had signed the papers.

John was on holiday, so, with Mycroft presiding, they'd married with Mrs. Hudson and Gregory Lestrade as their witnesses. Sherlock hadn't wanted to turn to his brother for such a favor, but the fact remained that Mycroft Holmes was probably the only public official whom Sherlock could trust not to invoke religion during the short ceremony. And in a way, reaching out to Mycroft subtly cemented the tentative friendship they were forming over the last few months—Sherlock had managed to shock his brother into realizing that he was no longer a strung out twenty-something ne'er-do-well, but rather a thirty-something man with a career and responsibilities.

When she'd asked, last week, Molly had mentioned that she'd been raised Catholic, her eyebrows raised in a manner she apparently hoped was significant. It wasn't, because Sherlock could read nothing from it. At least, there was nothing he wanted to read from it at the _time_. Now he thought back on the event and he wondered if he had missed something about Molly Hooper all these years—perhaps a quietly kept personal religious belief is what had gotten her through her years as a pathologist? The horror of death was less for her, because she believed it to be transitive?

Sherlock put it out of his mind. Molly's beliefs on the nature of death could be explored and corrected later, at the moment he knew he ought to be more concerned with the nature of life as his wife gave birth. He knew that getting married meant something dear to Molly, although he failed to see the importance of a legal agreement being evidence of love. Sherlock was much more of the opinion that the fact that Molly was the mother of his child was a much more convincing motivator towards fidelity and respect in their relationship—and he could back that claim up with a dozen different people. The very idea that marriage would somehow evince more _good_ rather than _not good_ behavior was ludicrous.

That was why he'd called Mycroft to preside. Because Sherlock had had no need for religious moralizing to chastise him into confining his attentions to Molly, and he did not want to start their legal marriage with ridiculous superstitious trappings. The only thing that their marriage certificate did was allow Molly some bragging rights among those she knew—she was _married_, and had to go home to cook supper for _her husband_, and being able to say those things would make Molly happy.

If it occurred to Sherlock how often he went through with doing something _because it made Molly happy_, he chose not to examine the full foundations of _why._

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Review?_  
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	15. Case 15

Hallo! Well, I'm a couple of chapters ahead in my editing of the original piece (which for those who want to skip ahead, is available over on tumblr, but be warned it is crap compared to this...sorry tumblr people...), but I think I will post this now. Thanks **Araminta18, Lady Osolone,** and **Vitawash** for the reviews since I put up Case 14! A wish for longer chapters was made and I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint a bit in that department. Although, to cheer you up after that admission, the original story as posted to tumblr was just a hair under 7k whereas in the unfinished edit of the story it is currently sitting at a chunky 12,200ish words. So just in the edit, which is just over half done, the fic has nearly doubled in length...So yeah.

Without further ado,

Enjoy!

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**A curse for every mile of ocean crossed**

Molly had taken the allotted time off after their daughter was born, as well as applying her vacation time to the end of the maternity leave. Sherlock had decided to take the same amount of time off from cases to stay home with her. Their daughter was named _Mavis Leonette Molly Holmes, _a name which Molly insisted on shortening to "May-vee Lynn" when she introduced their daughter to others. Sherlock managed to ensure that she was the only one to call the infant that—he constantly referred to his child as _Mavis Leonette, my daughter_. The girl took after Molly from what he could deduce from the hints of her tiny face and her wispy russet hair, and Sherlock smiled often when he lightly traced her miniscule nose with a fingertip. She hopefully would grow into Molly's nose, which he knew would wrinkle in frustration when he would update his social-cue research by experimenting on her friends and romantic interests in fifteen years or so.

Sherlock often held her late in the night, soothing her so that she didn't wake Molly—never had two parents, he decided, been so glad that one of them rarely slept. Sherlock reflected often, looking into his daughter's dark eyes, on the fact that he had never wanted children. Even Mavis Leonette's slight weight in his arms deeply reminded him that he had never mapped this particular life path for himself, not even when he was bored enough to hack Mycroft's surveillance systems and deduce the goings on in the country of the week based on his brother's consumption of tea. Being a father had simply never occurred to him even in his grandest explorations of the wilds outside of his Mind Palace—something John called "daydreaming," which was a term Sherlock disliked as it reminded him of his brief stint on barbiturates. John had _obviously_ never been slammed, unexpectedly and horrifically, into REM while still awake.

Not only had Sherlock never once planned on being a father, he had almost had no room in his current plans to continue being a father in this manner. Once he returned to his cases, he would no longer have time for this he knew, this act of holding his child close to his chest as he paced, of letting her wrap a reflexively strong hand around his little finger, any of it. He put several dozen mental reminders in his Mind Palace every day—at the rate he was leaving them, it would take another three weeks—so that soon he would go nowhere in it without tripping over the fact that he had a daughter, a wife, and responsibilities towards them. He did this so that once the cases came back, Molly and Mavis Leonette would not fade into the background of his life.

But for now, he and his daughter kept odd hours together. It seemed that if he was awake, she would be too until he picked her up and stalked throughout the flat with her. Some nights he could not wait to go back to cases, sitting perched on the couch staring at his laptop which he balanced on one knee as he cradled Mavis Leonette in the opposite arm, just answering emails for the more simple ones—something to _do_. Other nights he wandered through the moonlit flat marveling at his daughter's face. Sherlock knew she would not remember this, having an attentive father, as he inspected her cheeks and lips and eyebrows. She would remember Sherlock Holmes, the Consulting Detective that her mum was married to who _happened_ to be her father. She would remember a man who was distant but attentive, someone who her mother adored almost as much as Mavis Leonette—or _May-vee Lynn_ if he wasn't careful with Molly's urge to use the nickname.

Yes, Mavis Leonette _would_ remember an attentive mother, Sherlock decided one night about two months after her birth. Molly would not be going back to work as a pathologist for some time already because of her maternity leave. This gave Sherlock time—he would woo her to the idea slowly and never state his decision directly, so that she never noticed she'd not gone back to work. She had walked this far along the road with him, there was no way he was letting her hail a cab back to where they'd started.

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Review?


	16. Case 16

So thank you** Mrs. Dizzy **for that review on Case 15...I kind of just mentally hugged it for the last hour. Because every point you brought up, just...just...wow, I've got no words. Basically you just made this entire revision MORE than worth it. So yeah...and I'm so, so glad that you like the unapologetically dark Sherlock because that's just how he wanted to write himself this time around and he had none of it otherwise. And you're completely right about the power dynamic, too.

Without further ado,

Enjoy!

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**For I must die for what I've done**

Sherlock Holmes was used to risking his life for things he was passionate about. He had actively courted death in a dozen different ways with a dozen different drugs during his twenties, and he had led the dangerous life of a consulting detective into his mid-thirties. Every time he stepped out the door on a case which was a seven or above—John's wife Mary screened them for him, and she was disturbingly good at it—Sherlock put his life on the line. He was willing to forfeit everything to be right, the implication being that he would rather be dead if he was wrong.

But as his daughter grew—and Molly walked perfectly and naively into his trap of becoming a housewife—Sherlock found that he couldn't risk his life as often any more. The wildly active detective he had been for nearly seven years was getting old, dying inside him. The urge and need to control and analyze still gripped him fiercely, but he found himself taking more cases of six or less—cases he could solve in his living room as Molly made tea for the client and toted around Mavis Leonette on her hip, shooing the cat away from the table or his experiments. He found that the antagonistic relationship he'd had with his brother for so many years was quickly easing into a cool, consulting one—his brother sent him emails outlining problems, Sherlock sent solutions back.

_I did this entirely to myself_, he realized with a wry twist to his mouth when Molly informed him that he should start looking for another bizarre baby name to match the one he'd forced on their daughter because he had once again gotten her pregnant. They were sitting eating breakfast—well, he was stirring his sugar into his coffee and she had just finished wiping Mavis Leonette's face free of pureed carrots—when Molly turned to him with a smile on her face. Sherlock had to remind himself that he needed and cared deeply for Molly and for his daughter by her when Molly had giggled in her terribly grating way, her laughter a precursor to the flat and sad joke_—"My eggo is preggo!"_

He reflected with pride many years later that he hadn't physically recoiled at the sound _or _the joke. He had actually stood with a smile and pulled her up from her seat next to his daughter, kissing her soundly on the mouth. Sherlock had had vague plans of sabotaging any efforts Molly might present in staving off pregnancy, but he dropped them immediately. This was perfect, just what he'd wanted—not Christmas, perhaps, but most definitely a sweet from an Advent calendar, it couldn't have come at a better time than the present.

Mavis Leonette was just barely starting to walk, and Molly had begun to make noises about going back to work part time. Oh she would go back to work, but only briefly and most _definitely_ part time—pregnant and with a toddler, she wouldn't have much time to give to the hospital—and after that she wouldn't go back again. This second child would completely kill Molly's chances, desires, and likely her ability to return to the workforce at the same level she had left it at. Sherlock would miss examining her beautiful autopsies—well, to be highly honest, he already missed watching her work and reading her autopsy reports. There was nothing for it, however, so they would have to settle for dissecting what they could here at home.

Yes, Sherlock knew as he pulled Molly tightly against his chest and stroked his hands through her hair, _they_. He would never retire, _ever_, but he would now no longer leave the flat for anything less than a nine, and he would no longer communicate via on-location video for anything less than a seven. And anything less than a four would not be interviewed in person at Baker Street—ones and twos would be thrown out completely now and threes would be answered via email for a hefty "processing" fee. Within a second he was done reorganizing his client-importance list, his eyes narrowed as he looked down at his daughter over his wife's shoulder. Molly had taken the girl's wispy russet hair and tied it into a 'cute' tuft on top of her head with a soft green ribbon.

The plan to control and keep Molly with him came back to him. He had done this to ensure that no one would use this woman against him, would not even think it—because she was _his_. That had been the plan, but it seemed that it was fatally flawed—his obsessive and possessive nature meant that _Sherlock_ was using Molly against _himself. _His days of adventuring were likely coming to an end, because now having Molly around was no longer so that _he _was safe. Sherlock found he needed to be around to keep _her_ safe—was this how Mycroft had felt when his little son had been born several years ago?

Sherlock was wholly unsure of whether he frightfully enjoyed this turn of events, or if he utterly loathed it. How his overly buttoned brother had ever dealt with these feelings, Sherlock didn't know—perhaps Mycroft was better at slicing the insidious little emotional ties away than Sherlock himself was—but he was starting to realize that the web for Molly was a _bit_ too sticky.

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Review?


	17. Case 17

Thank you** Araminta18 **and** Mrs. Dizzy **for the reviews on Case 16! I'm glad to hear how much you both like this, and the reasons why. This has so far been a wonderful treat for a vacation from Naruto (I...uh, just got done writing my first epic and just needed a bit of space to breathe afterwards), the response I've gotten for these Sherlock/Molly stories.

Well, this is Case 17. And My Medea is only divergent from S2 in that it is an AU of S2...

Enjoy!

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**A twist of fate, a desert sun**

It was only by dumb luck that he found out about the plot to kill his wife and children, through his homeless network. Even though he rarely went out now on cases—only ones of the most extraordinary circumstances merited his limited time since Brinley was born, or when he had to escape his wife when Molly was mad at him for testing child psychology theories on their children—Sherlock often wandered the city with his family, being generous to the homeless on occasion. Some people read the paper to know the world around them. Sherlock knew the goings on of the city from the blood which never left its veins—Regulars frequented the arteries, pulsing through the city in shifts, whereas his homeless were the _Ir_regulars, moving through the city at the pace and direction that it pressured them. When he found out, he was consumed with fury, a rare occurrence for him which had left him rattled and wary afterwards.

He didn't particularly care that those threatened were _his wife and children_ so much as _they were people who put their implicit trust in him to not get them killed_. He was confident that he would have had the same reaction had he found out that three assassins were being sent out in London to kill Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, and John. At least he had Molly, which was an unexpected boon during an even more unexpected time of urgent need. Sherlock had found out too late, far, far, far too late, to do anything but damage control at this point. That was where Molly came in, helpful and trustingly at his side as ever.

It was high summer in London, and unseasonably hot as he stood atop St. Bart's looking out at the cloudless sky. He was wearing Molly's favorite shirt on him, a light blue silk button up with the sleeves folded back on his forearms in an attempt at temperature control—he much preferred winter and his wonderful long coat. Mavis Leonette had picked out the pocket kerchief to go with the shirt, deciding that the worrying shade of magenta was a perfect fit (it had been a gift from John's wife last Christmas, and had been properly buried beneath his sock index since then, or so he'd thought). _Papa needs pii-ink, papa! Papa, piiiink-k-k-k_. Sherlock had taken her decision with grace—he was about to convince his almost three year old daughter that he was dead, he could wear the freakish color for one day of his life for his only daughter.

Brinley had attempted to help him dress this morning as well with a bit of spit-up, but Sherlock well-remembered Mavis Leonette's tricks with that and the child hadn't succeeded. The boy had woken up in the middle of the night and refused to be settled, so, after he'd put his shirt and trousers on, Sherlock had spent the night holding his son close. The pudgy baby was heavy in his arms the whole time, despite Sherlock remembering quite clearly that last week—before he had found out about this terrible plot, and before he'd hit upon an equally terrible solution—Brinley had felt light in his hands compared to Mavis Leonette. He had only passed his son to Molly after she had finished cooking breakfast for them, sitting down to eat. This morning had been his and Molly's last together for what was either forever or for a very long time. He'd made sure to eat properly, as the bird's nest—just toast with egg—would likely be his last square meal until he returned to his family. Mavis Leonette tried to steal his toast after devouring her own, and Brinley had sat in Molly's lap gurgling and clapping. Molly sat still, half-heartedly playing with Brinley's hands to keep him interested. She was sickeningly pale whenever her eyes met his. He made a note to pinch her cheeks a little before they left if she was still pale, it wouldn't do to have people asking her if she was alright—they needed to attract as little attention as possible.

Sherlock had made sure to take Molly's arm in a carefree way as they walked towards St. Bart's—it was supposed to look like a normal day. A big, but normal, day. Molly would go to work to tender her long-expected resignation with her annoying husband at her side and she would say pleasant goodbyes and make her excuses for resigning while her husband was busy making a nattering arse of himself to everyone there. Mrs. Hudson would be back at Baker Street looking after the Holmes children. But it was anything but a normal day, even for a big, normal day—later in the morning, Molly was going to help Sherlock kill himself so he could save them all.

Moriarty's criminal syndicate had writhed through several major power-struggles and coups over the last few years, but eventually one man had risen to the top. The victor was a man named Moran, an ex-military man who had been Moriarty's lover and personal body guard, and the Irishman had an impressive axe to grind with Sherlock. The detective's only luck had been that Moran had played his hands too fast and too broad, and Sherlock was able to see the tiniest loophole. He had sent the message last night through his homeless network. _Keep your eyes _fixed_ on me, keep them on me until I hit the ground. Let your revenge rest when they bury me—I can't solve crimes from beyond the grave. _It would only work because he was dealing with Moran and not Moriarty. Moriarty would never have stopped until everything Sherlock cared about had been dragged through tar and slime.

He knew of their planned character assassination of him. He would rather die before he had to live through that. If they would kindly come to St. Bart's and watch him fall to his death as they were obviously already planning—he would never bother them again. Being dead and all. They could even come to the rooftop and push him off if they wanted. Only to leave his wife and children alone, as it had been his fault Moriarty was dead—not theirs.

The response had come that morning, in the form of a hulking man who stood exactly where Sherlock had specified to. One who stared intently up at the sky above St. Bart's, waiting. Sherlock was unpleasantly reminded of Molly's cat. The mangy animal had been especially clingy to Sherlock last night as he paced around the flat with Brinley, as though it had known of his imminent "demise."

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Review?


	18. Case 18

I'd apologize for posting again so soon but you all love it don't you? Since I'm just about done with the edit (which has doubled the length of the original story, I've just broken 14k on it), I'm mostly just posting these as soon as there's been some indication that they've been read and/or gotten some feedback about each chapter. Also, I'd like to point out that Brinley is in fact a real name for a boy, and there are a handful of men on wikipedia who have the name. One of them is a composer. Also, Retallack is a name as well, usually a surname but that is keeping with Sherlock I think as "Sherlock" is also a surname. Also, I can't see someone named _Sherlock_ would give his kids very normal names, do you?

Also, you can keep track(ish) of how many chapters are left by listening to My Medea...yeah...

Thank you, **Mrs. Dizzy**, again for that lovely review and no, it's not weird, I love it! I do kind of the same thing to stories sometimes, so I understand.

Without further ado,

Enjoy!

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**For I see what I destroy**

Children were astounding in their ability to truly _see_ the truth behind adult actions. The only reason people were not more fearful of children, Sherlock knew, was because the little demons did not have the life-experience behind them to properly apply the deductions of those adult actions. When people said that Sherlock himself had sometimes a childlike understanding of the world, he considered it a compliment. And when he saw men like Moriarty, cruel, brilliant, _childlike_ he felt a twinge in his gut—John would have called it fear, but Sherlock thought of it as severe apprehension. Severe apprehension was not what he was feeling at the moment, however. It was outright horror, and loss.

Mycroft allowed him to watch the CCTV of the main rooms of 221B, to help him to understand and grip what he was leaving behind and what state he was leaving it in. His daughter shrieked that "Papa can't! He can't, he can't he can't!" relentlessly when she was very gently told by a barely-coping Molly that Papa had fallen down. Papa had fallen and he hadn't gotten back up. That he wouldn't ever get back up, and he wasn't coming home. Mavis Leonette's screams went up an octave when Molly brought her the magenta pocket kerchief with "Sherlock's" scarlet blood on it from the morning—Sherlock had promised to wear it all day and come home wearing it, a solemn vow to be reneged on only in death in his daughter's eyes.

It was listening to his son sob and screech his way through the night that killed Sherlock inside. The little boy had been confused by all the people in and out. He'd been fussy but manageable until evening because it was as night set in that it dawned on Brinley that his world had gone awry without prior notice and his wails had started up to replace his sister's. Sherlock's arms ached. He _always_ held his children through the night when they woke and cried—Molly needed her sleep to chase after them during daylight hours when he was far too busy to be bothered with anything, and he was awake most of the night anyway. Sherlock had only been able to endure an hour of his son's choked tears before he asked Mycroft to have someone note how long it took the child to recover from his absence—and then he had left the room he'd spent half the day in.

It did not pain Sherlock to say that he cared for each of his children unequally. His daughter was a welcome accident, a surprise, and Sherlock loved surprises because they were _surprises_ to his ordered and logical world. But he cared for his son in a way he didn't know he could—he _loved_ the boy. When Molly had been carrying Brinley, Sherlock had bubbled with pleasure at being able to compare and contrast her two pregnancies—he had in fact been so wrapped up in his data cataloguing that the child's name was left up in the air until hours after birth.

John and his wife had been there, John holding Mavis Leonette on his lap while Mary cooed with Molly over the new baby. Sherlock sat opposite his old flatmate, playing aimless lines of music on his violin, when Molly had asked him to play her a real song—and something soft, like a lullaby, a song about spring, she didn't care. He'd smiled, closing his eyes and poising the bow just above the strings. The violin pieces he preferred did not fit her description, but that insipid piano piece about birdsong _did_. He didn't pause to think how easy it was to keep Molly happy once she _was_ happy—three or four years ago he had struggled, thinking each day would be a torment with her terrible humor and conversational skills, their clashes in interest. This, this was so much easier than what he'd expected when he'd sacrificed himself to her outside of her flat.

"What are you going to name him?" John asked, as Sherlock opened his eyes only again after he finished transposing between instruments. He briefly took the violin from his neck and smiled at Molly. Her face was still flushed, a few burst capillaries on her face from the labor, and her hair was luxuriously messy. The baby she held in her arms had almost a full head of hair, with the same russet hue as its mother's and sister's.

"Brinley, after the composer of his first lullaby. Brinley Hooper Retallack Holmes."

"Hooper?" John asked as Molly's skin managed to turn even pinker. He had made her happy—he was about to make her happier.

"A Holmes family tradition, second child always gets the mother's maiden name as a primary middle name. It was after the Retallack case that he was likely conceived. I am Sherlock Vernet Auguste Holmes, my son will be Brinley Hooper Retallack Holmes." And with that, Sherlock had put his violin firmly against his neck and started the soft melody that Molly had asked for, ignoring everyone else but Molly. Since then, he had played the song each night until long after his family had fallen asleep—tonight was the first time Brinley had gone to sleep in near silence, and the infant clearly _loathed_ the experience. _At least he is crying, hating, and breathing, **alive**,_ Sherlock said to himself after he stalked out of the room.

He couldn't bear to watch Molly for a moment longer, either. The flat had filled with their sparse relatives and fewer friends, people trying to comfort Molly by doing a bit of cleaning or cooking. When someone had attempted to shuffle his papers around, his wife had started shouting and sobbing for them to stop, for it to stop, for Sherlock to _come back._ He hoped that John and his wife, who got there as soon as they could after hearing the news, would be able to help Molly because Sherlock himself was now far too removed to do anything but clench his fists in rarely engaged-in rage.

It took him another day to plan out how he would follow all of the leads his brother had dredged up in the last sixty hours. And then he disappeared, brutally intent on permanently ending the threat to his family. His years spent living on the streets in his twenties, strung-out and homeless, served him well as he headed out into the night with no hope of coming home.

He contacted no one for the next three years, not even Mycroft for _anything_. He lived rough, and acted brutally—there was no point in hoping he could dismantle an entire criminal organization by himself, so he didn't. He didn't spend more than an hour contemplating the fact that that meant he would never be able to go home. He would never hold Molly close in the throes of passion. He would never see his daughter learn to read, or his son learn to talk. It was dead to him despite being alive, and Sherlock tried to reconcile the notion unsuccessfully many times—perhaps this kind of conundrum is why religion appealed to the stupid? He knew well enough that when he died—for real—he would be dead, and he knew very well that if he ever managed to come home, it would not be to _his_ Molly.

The kind of years-long devotion needed to sustain such hope was a thing of fiction novels and fantasy, in Sherlock's mind. No _real_ person would ever be able to make such an indelible mark on another, not even him. There were people, he was sure, who would forget him even after all of the amazing things he had done.

True, Sherlock wanted to hope that Molly would be the exception to what he knew was the rule—but now was the time more than ever to be rational about things. He had constantly added loops and tangles of himself around her, fearing that they lost their effectiveness over time—Mrs. Hudson had recovered within a year of her husband's death and she'd been married to the man for nearly twenty. He and Molly had only been married for almost three years—there were _dating_ relationships lasting longer than what they'd had together. The marks Sherlock had made on Molly's soul would fade in time and there was no doubt that she would move on before he returned to her. It burned viciously in his chest night and day and he recalled the long-dead Jim Moriarty's words—that he would burn the heart out of Sherlock, he would burn it right out.

Sherlock wondered if this was how Moriarty reckoned it ought to have felt.

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	19. Case 19

Thanks yet again to **Mrs. Dizzy** for a staggeringly lovely review! We are coming up to the end of the story (obvs) in another few chapters, which I hope you'll like...especially the last one, as that has gone under a major overhaul in my mind. Again, of course, if you want to finish the story (with a distinctly subpar ending) it is posted in its entirety over on tumbr on the Silberias blog.

Without further ado,

Enjoy!

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**Sweet reflection knife into me**

Three years had done nothing to lessen the burning in his chest, every muscle there tense and strained but it was even worse today. His head was filled with pins and needles, too, and his hands were clenched so hard in his coat pockets that he knew they were deathly white and the skin on the backs and knuckles would be ice cold while his palms were furnaces against his fingers. It was January, his favorite time of year in London, but the dreary weather brought him no comfort as he stalked along the streets and avenues of London behind a widowed mother and orphaned child.

He followed Molly back to 221B, watching her walk happily with Mavis Leonette—his daughter had captured Molly's hand and swung it wildly back and forth. His wife still wore the wedding ring he'd put on her, tiny on one of her tiny fingers, and she'd not changed her hair much. She wore no lipstick, and the chain on her neck looked to be weighted heavily by the thick ring he once wore. She now called his daughter by her full name, no longer cradling a toddler to her front and sing-songing _May-vee, maybe, maybe May-vee is afraid of the tickle monster!_ He knew, from reviewing last week's surveillance, that Brinley was with Mrs. Hudson because it was ten in the morning on a Wednesday—Mycroft's hovering minion had informed him that the little boy had the habit of stuffing small objects down into his nappy, taking them out for later inspection and jealously guarding his small hoard. His brother had one-upped Sherlock's request of looking after the boy. Mycroft had had a full psychological profile prepared for one Brinley Hooper Retallack Holmes, and it was the first thing his brother had handed to him in the pre-dawn meeting they'd had outside of London in an old farmhouse.

Sherlock whispered her name at first, testing it out on his lips for the first time since that haunting morning three years ago. He had taken, as he walked out of Mycroft's sight, his family and herded them into a room deep beneath his Mind Palace. And then he had locked the door and bricked it over, and then he had filled in the stairwell leading to them—the trapdoor leading to nowhere but bricks didn't fool him, of course but there was nothing else to be done. He well remembered what was down there, but at least without the constant reminders of their laughter and smiles he could _function_.

Molly's name came out hoarse and nearly silent, so he cleared his throat and wished that he'd shaved when he'd seen Mycroft earlier. He hoped that the seventy three gray hairs at his temples wouldn't put her off too badly either—whitening or lightening of the hair was a symptom of high stress, which he begrudgingly admitted he had been under for the last three years. Sherlock shook his head, clearing his throat again. He was forty three years old, he told himself, he deserved a few gray hairs. It made him look distinguished. Molly would think so, or he could persuade her to at least. Casting green eyes up once again at the woman—not _the_ woman, _his _woman—Sherlock took a deep breath and made ready to come alive again.

"Molly, you really should wear lipstick love—your mouth is too small and I can see that you drank too much chianti last night from the stain on your upper lip," he called out, standing still and watching as Molly turned around in shock, searching for the form she once knew. Maybe she could see his green eyes at this distance? Her hands went limp at her sides when she recognized him, freeing Mavis Leonette who darted towards him screaming.

"_Papa papa papa papa!_" Sherlock managed to bend down quickly enough to catch the nearly six year old girl, swinging around with the momentum from her run—he hitched her up to his hip, their eyes nearly level. She had certainly grown—she looked just like her mother, but she was going to be quite tall because of the Holmes in her which had Sherlock's mouth curling into a brief smile. And she remembered him—the smile broke into a grin—_she remembered his voice_. Sherlock was too stunned and in awe of his daughter's remarkable memory to notice Molly until she too was flinging herself at him as well, sobbing into his shirt with abandon.

Awkwardly Sherlock freed one arm and swept it around Molly and fitted her against him properly, leaning his cheek on the top of her head while Mavis Leonette cuddled against him.

"She has an astounding memory, Molly, what is your secret?" he murmured as his daughter chattered and wiggled in his hold.

"The night before you fell, you read them a story—I recorded it with my phone, I had Mycroft properly format it into a disk. You've been reading them to sleep for years, Sherlock."

He allowed himself a wider grin at that—not only had he roped Molly tight enough to him that she was still here three years on, waiting, but she was also clever enough to know that if he came back it would be to children who didn't know him. Thanks to his clever, _clever _Molly they knew his voice—and probably his face too. He wanted, suddenly, to see his son.

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	20. Case 20

Just one more chapter after this one... Again, of course, if you want to finish the story right friggin' now (with a distinctly subpar ending) it is posted in its entirety over on tumbr on the Silberias blog. **Mrs. Dizzy,** you are due for a slew of reviews of your own in a bit. I have to find myself some lunch but when I get back things are going to happen with that review button. Particularly the Molly/Mycroft ones. Yes. Also, **Araminta18,** I'm glad that the last chapter made it betterish? Yes? Thank you both for checking in and telling me how you like this, too!

Also, yes, this is short. It was shorter.

Without further ado,

Enjoy!

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**For I see what I destroy**

Molly had had photographs done of their family, with what Sherlock deduced was a religious fervor after he'd faked his own death. The photos were in the stair leading up to the second bedroom, which both children now shared since Brinley was just recently three. Sherlock touched the oldest frames, showing at first just the three of them and then later with Brinley. Molly's smile was sweet and happy in those photos—she was smiling with her teeth, which were small and she was self-conscious of save for when she was blissfully happy.

The smiles in the next three photos showed no teeth save for those of Mavis Leonette, Brinley seeming to choose the face of a stoic. Molly was not _un_happy in these photographs, but he could see that she felt adrift. Ten years he'd been attached to this woman's heart, he realized as he looked into her eyes—steady, fixed on the camera, hands controlling their two children into behaving—of course she had felt adrift. He had managed to wedge himself so far into her very perception of herself that he was actually quite surprised that she hadn't self-destructed after helping him fake his death.

He vowed to be better for her, right then. She certainly deserved a reward for the massive sacrifice she'd made for him—he could see it in the photos, the ones where he was absent but she remained. Molly was always there for him, always. He'd come back not a moment too soon, though, because in the newest set she looked frayed and worn. _Lonely_, the word echoed through his Mind Palace, reminding him harshly of his own time away from her. He had been _lonely_ too.

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	21. Cold Case

**Araminta18, Mrs. Dizzy,** thanks for the love you've given to this as I've put it up. Revision is something I loath and avoid, but this was highly satisfying and hearing everything people mentioned here really made it even more worth it. I hope you like how this ends, and I hope to hear from everyone soon about it. This is now complete, case closed except for the one Sherlock has just opened. But I think that is a task maybe for another day or another writer who is less in tune with this dark, manipulative Sherlock and more in tune with the woman he's realizing he's loved for years.

I'm also a few hundred words into a possible alternate ending, but I don't think that will make it here. I think if it ever does hit the internet, it will be on the Silberias blog.

Thank you all again for the alerts and favorites, and the reviews too :)

Without further ado,

Enjoy!

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**I can see what I've begun**

The first night he was home he did several things while Molly was making dinner. He sent Mavis Leonette downstairs with her brother in tow—they were to ask very sweetly for Mrs. Hudson to come upstairs for the wonderful dinner that their mummy was making for them, but it wasn't ready yet so first could they hear the story about when Papa saved Mummy from That Bad Man Named Jim? The next thing he did was sequester himself in the bathroom and quickly shave, washing his face of the itchy beard that had been his best disguise for the last several years. He had apparently cultivated too posh an image for anyone to recognize him with any facial hair whatsoever.

After that he found his violin—Molly had locked it in the top dresser drawer to keep small hands and the cat away from the precious instrument. First he tightened the hair of the bow, and rosined it in silence before turning it to the violin, intent on tuning it for the first time in years. Molly sniffled a few times in the kitchen, crying almost silently. Sherlock didn't ask, he knew. He had tuned it every night and played her something new and interesting, and throughout her day he tried to work in a few snatches of Scheherazade—it was his chosen way of saying that he loved her without actually doing so. Because he hadn't loved her, he'd come to believe, not as he should have anyway.

Coming back with his name blissfully cleared was his second chance on so many things. Perhaps he wouldn't insult Sally Donovan for having Anderson's brat, but rather be good enough to keep that a secret from Anderson as Sally had so far done quite successfully—besides, Sherlock rationalized, he wouldn't inflict Anderson as a father on anyone, not even the man's own son. Sherlock had gotten a _lot_ better at 'compassion' in the last three years, proving his diagnosis of 'high functioning' sociopath—he'd begun to understand _mercy_. Perhaps he would stand as godfather for John's daughter, or agree to be Lestrade's best man at his remarriage to his wife. So many second chances, and the one he most wanted to take was the one he was getting with Molly.

So he didn't say anything as Molly made dinner and he tuned his violin. He understood her tears, because it had been years since Molly had had this. Him sitting in his chair, rosining his bow, putting his violin to his neck—he well remembered the alien void in his life where she was _supposed_ to be over the last three years, so he understood and saw that his absence had been just as alien or more to Molly.

Sherlock took a few deep breaths, going to his Mind Palace and planning what he would play for her. The next few weeks would be all she would ever know of his three missing years, he would play them for her. He would play that Vivaldi piece he'd been practicing in his head for weeks—the excitement of finally going home, to a warm bed and good food—he would play that. Quickly he worked out several variants of it so that he could play it longer—he dismissed a passing hope his fingers would survive the next few days. The calluses on his left hand had long ago disappeared. Just because he knew every finger placement perfectly, in perfect tune with his bowing, didn't mean it would be comfortable. He went to his chair and stood on it, striking what Molly would tell her friends was a "heroic" pose. For Sherlock it was just the easiest way to stand on the chair and always had been.

Molly had kept this chair, _his_ chair right where he'd left it—it had become her chair in the last three years, bearing the stains and wear marks left by a tiny woman with tinier children, but he graciously decided that they could share. And then he lifted his bow and started the fast and furious tempest that was Vivaldi's Storm. He didn't hope that his violin wouldn't bruise him too badly. It would, it had been three years. It was a fact. From his vantage point on his chair he eyed the living room, kitchen, and the stairs from Mrs. Hudson's flat. It smelled differently but the same, he decided as his fingers flew over the strings. He also decided that he wanted it to return to how it smelled in his memory. He flicked his gaze at Molly, moving into the second arrangement he'd made up without missing a beat, and decided that a third child was most definitely in order. To help him adjust.

As his fingertips warmed unpleasantly as they pressed on the violin strings—oh yes, he was most definitely going to blister them by tomorrow morning at _least_—the door to a new room opened in his Mind Palace. Inside the room he placed two names—_Hamish Gregory Holmes_ and _Eleanor Matilda Holmes_—for future reference, when he would need a properly Holmes family name next January or February. Fortunately John Watson, DI Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson had appropriate names on their legal papers, and they would see his choices as considerations of their worth in his life.

Well, they weren't _very_ wrong—but Sherlock knew they would be offended if he enumerated his reasons for choosing the names. As was his habit, he pasted some keywords to the door to get back to the room more easily—_baby, fatherhood, family, Molly, news, rent, Baker Street, rent another room from Mrs. Hudson, crowded, surprise, home_. They were keywords, nothing more, really, but it pleased others to think that he had to follow a path to get somewhere—long ago someone had described it as though he had a map of his mind and followed the streets listed there. Rubbish. Cache-searches were much faster and more accurate.

The wild abandon of the violin brought his children and Mrs. Hudson scrambling up the stairs. Brinley almost had Mavis Leonette beaten, Sherlock observed proudly. He hopped to the floor so that they wouldn't jump on him and make him fall—Sherlock had no desire to break an arm _or_ his violin on the night of his grand return to life as Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective—instead both of them collided with his legs, clamoring for his attention. He switched to the seventh arrangement, something a little slower and less of a fevered squeal, watching their eyes avidly drink in his quick movements. Mrs. Hudson was clapping, and Molly had one of her hands at her neck—the other in a tight fist just beneath her ribs. Her eyes were wide and moist, glittering with tears.

There would be time to tell John, and Gregory Lestrade, and a dozen other people of his return, but these were his family, and he would _make_ them love him if he had to. One of them he didn't have to, he knew that much. She already gave enough love to their relationship for the both of them. He was struck by the fact that he had missed her so profoundly—and that he was so elated to come home to her. Perhaps…making eye contact with Molly he switched again, a fast, winding version of the song he always played her. Perhaps he loved her. Really, actually loved her—and yet he still failed to love her more than she loved him. The aching high notes of Scheherazade keyed him up, allowing him to take in more than he usually did about Molly.

She was exactly what he needed her to be, always. Means to an end, assistant, lover, wife, mother to his children, and comforter of his soul. He would try, now that they were as safe as he could make them, to be exactly what she needed him to be—and it occurred to Sherlock that he had no idea what Molly needed him to be, and that in and of itself was a wonderful mystery to solve as his first case back from the dead. He'd always liked her, but why had she always liked _him?_

Sherlock grinned, and the melody coming from his fingertips and violin turned wicked. Cold-cases were always the most satisfying to solve, after all.

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